


Masquerade

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blackmail, Bondage fantasy, Bullying, Closeted Character, Community: hp_silencio, Cuckqueaning, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, Multi, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pansy knows what Astoria can't let anyone find out, and now she's got Astoria — and Draco — right where she wants them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarletladyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletladyy/gifts).



> Written for the first round of the [Silencio](http://hp-silencio.livejournal.com) dialogue-free challenge. Thanks to [scarletladyy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletladyy) for an excellent prompt, to [Hannelore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hannelore) for proofreading, and to [Nox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kedavranox) for running a great fest!

This is the sixth party Astoria has attended with Draco since it happened.

It is the Higgses' annual fancy dress party. This year's theme is the Magic of Antiquity. As Astoria makes her way through the crowded balcony overlooking the gardens, slipping past Osiris and Circe, she reflects upon the safety of this choice of theme. Likely, Mrs Higgs is seeking to avoid a repeat of last year's minor scandal, when the theme of History's Greatest Wizards had brought out of the woodwork a very smug Theodore Nott, arriving with his hair bleached blond and the insignia of Grindelwald emblazoned on his arm.

Astoria vividly remembers the stir when he entered, the gasps and chuckles. She can still feel the cold shock that ran through her, and see Draco's rather fixed smile, as though unwilling to commit himself fully to approval or censure. She hears, too, Pansy's shrill peal of hysterical delight. There is, of course, nothing Pansy would approve of more than drawing attention to oneself. She hung upon Theodore's arm that night almost as much as on Draco's.

Tonight, at dinner, Mrs Higgs had Pansy seated as far from Astoria and Draco as possible. Astoria could not actually see Pansy past an enormous alabaster centrepiece of Cupid, who periodically shot heart-shaped bubbles that floated idly over the guests' heads. It somehow ratcheted Astoria's anxiety up even higher, being unable to see if Pansy was looking, if she and Draco's eyes had met, and wondering just how much Mrs Higgs knew. Astoria tried to stop her hand from trembling as she delicately speared the tiny lark's tongues on her plate.

Now that dinner is over, there is nothing to keep Pansy away from Draco — and nothing to keep her away from Pansy. Astoria isn't sure why she's looking for them, when she knows all too well what she will see.

There they are, in the great central room, which has been enchanted to make the walls look like open-air colonnades, and the ceiling like an oil painting of a dark purple storm. The hors d'oeuvre trays are being passed around by green-clad fairies, beating their gossamer wings furiously to hold up the weight.

Pansy is reclining on a divan amidst the mingling guests, dressed as Cleopatra, one hand raised and wrist resting upon her forehead, absurdly dramatic. The other hand holds a wine glass, half full. The bangles about her arms sparkle subtly on their own whether the light strikes them or not. Her feet are propped up in Draco's lap, her pleated linen dress hitched up enough to expose her silk-smooth lower legs, but not quite enough to be crude. Her sandals are off, lying between Draco's feet on the floor, as though to protect them from being trod on.

As Astoria watches, breath held in her throat, Draco (who is Caesar, and Astoria hadn't questioned his choice until now) draws his fingertips up the sole of Pansy's foot, grinning slyly. Pansy lets out a too-loud shriek of laughter, nearly spilling her wine on the Higgses' nice clean floor.

Some of the partygoers turn to glance at them, either in annoyance or in amusement. Astoria watches as Mrs Higgs looks very pointedly down her nose at Pansy, then turns aside brusquely and stalks off in the direction of the kitchen. Pansy notices this — oh, she notices! — but far from being shamed, she seems to drink in her host's disapproval, feeding off it. She wriggles her arse into the divan, as though the pleasure of being paid attention to is simply too much, and gives Draco a wrinkle-nosed grin. His smile broadens, and he lets his fingers dance up Pansy's shins.

As Pansy writhes in another spurt of laughter, she turns her head aside, and spots Astoria across the room.

The change in her demeanour is abrupt. Pansy ceases to merely enjoy herself, and begins to _perform_. Her eyes, crisply outlined in Egyptian kohl, lock onto Astoria's as she slowly draws the white hem of her dress up a few more inches, baring her knees. Draco seems not to notice the direction of her gaze as his hand, too, creeps up, palm brushing against her thigh.

Pansy's laugh, now, is dark and wicked, and her face alight with cruelty, staring into Astoria's eyes and daring her to object.

Astoria can't.

As soon as Pansy looks at her, it's like she's held in a full body bind, still and wordless. Pansy's gaze travels lazily and mockingly up and down her body, and the heat of shame floods up into Astoria's cheeks. Astoria's outfit is meant to make her the Oracle of Delphi, and it seemed a good idea when she had it, but now she feels like a toddler playing dress-up, her chiton big and dumpy and awkward. She feels naked with nothing on underneath, stripped down beneath Pansy's merciless eyes, the eyes that she has feared since she was eleven years old.

*

Astoria was in fourth year when she had her first girlfriend, though she wouldn't have called it that, then or ever.

Letitia Burton was the only other Slytherin girl in her year, and had been her best friend since their Sorting. Her broad, perpetually unsmiling face had a cleft chin that the other girls said made her look like a boy. They looked coldly after her when she walked down the hall, shoulders clenched and clutching her books to her chest. More than once Astoria had seen Professor McGonagall frown at Letitia for so clumsily stumbling into desks and chairs; none of the teachers ever seemed to notice that people were sticking out their legs and tripping her.

When Astoria was alone with her in the dorm, away from giggles and stares, Letitia still never smiled, but her shoulders relaxed. As they got older, Astoria didn't know why looking at Letitia felt so good, why seeing her push her bottle-thick glasses up the bridge of her nose was like a drink of fresh water in the desert.

Astoria remembers when she and Letitia were sitting tailor-fashion, doing their homework side by side in blessed silence on her bed, and Letitia slipped her hand into Astoria's for the first time. She was left-handed and Astoria was right, so they just sat there that way, hand in hand and each girl scribbling away at her parchment, symmetrical and complete.

She also remembers their chaste and fumbling kisses, her heart pounding as much from the terror of creaks and footfalls in the hallway as from the feeling of Letitia's lips upon hers.

Back then, Pansy was the queen of the Slytherin girls, stalking the dungeons with her train of hangers-on, who so anxiously hoped that playing the part of her loyal subjects would protect them from her cruelty. Astoria had never been able to shake the thought that Pansy was beautiful, though her face was, objectively, plain. Someone like that just _had_ to be pretty. She rarely deigned to speak to Astoria, but when her gaze happened to pass over Letitia and her, she always looked at them with a certain amused, terrifying distaste — like she _knew_.

When Pansy was gone at last, other girls took her place, but none could ever really compare. None had learnt what was bred in Pansy's bones: To be the master of gossip is not to tell all one knows, but rather to file every detail away until the moment when it can be used to one's greatest advantage.

*

It was at Astoria and Draco's wedding reception that it happened.

Pansy's name had appeared on the wedding guest list in Draco's handwriting, without a word of discussion. Astoria had lain awake all night after seeing it there, her face hot and heart hammering as she weighed the embarrassment of saying something to Draco against the terror of Pansy actually being there. For days she tortured herself with the thought of how _stupid_ it was to be afraid.

She had known, of course, that Draco had once belonged to Pansy, one of the many jewels in her crown. But that was years ago, and they were all grown up now, weren't they? Astoria was only twenty-two, but had already reached the age when she felt too old to be alone, and when her mother, face lined with worry, asked her when she was ever going to bring a nice boy home.

And Draco… Draco may not have been a _nice_ boy, but he came by the office day after day, and kept talking to her even though he didn't have to. Everyone said he fancied her, and though she couldn't feel it, she chose to believe it. It made everything easier. It made her mother smile again.

The wedding itself seemed as much a masquerade as one of the Higgses' parties. In her gown Astoria felt like a living doll, stiff and painted, the rows of pearls on her bodice making her have to stand up very straight and breathe carefully. As she often did, she had to pretend she was only acting in a play, that this wasn't her real life. It was easy enough to do when she was costumed this way.

As she walked up the aisle, there were only two things keeping her from running away, from stopping all this. One was her mother's face beaming at her, face shining with ecstatic tears. The other was the little quirk of Draco's lips as he stood there in his dress robes, as though he knew, too, that it was all a silly little game.

Pansy, of course, was there. She could hardly have been missed, sitting in a sea of pastel summer-wedding clothes wearing a dress of blood red, and her eyes digging into the bride and groom like daggers.

At the reception, Pansy stalked Astoria like a huntress. Every time she turned around, Pansy was nearby, as casually as a coincidence, and smiling her false, crooked smile. Trapped among broad smiles of congratulation and warm handshakes, Astoria could not flee from her, no longer able to hide in the shadows of obscurity.

At last, Astoria went to the washroom, her head light with champagne, wishing she could clean the thick-feeling makeup off her face. Feeling like a complete fool sitting on the toilet with the fluffy layers of her wedding dress hiked up about her waist, she almost wanted to laugh, but stifled it in case (as sometimes happened to Astoria) the laughter abruptly turned to tears.

As she was washing her hands, the door clicked open. Astoria hadn't locked it — what was the use in a house full of witches? — but nonetheless she jumped, knocking her wrist painfully against the tap.

There, shutting the washroom door with a delicate click behind her, and wearing a hungry smile, was Pansy.

She crossed her arms, feet planted apart, and stared Astoria down. Astoria thought she looked strangely young, just then, once more a teenager walking easily among the children over whom she ruled.

Astoria opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, Pansy stepped to her, and in one fluid movement she grabbed her around her corseted waist and silenced her with a kiss.

Kissing Pansy was like a hot shower after swimming all day in the cold ocean, tired muscles turning warm and liquid. It was nothing like kissing Draco, nor even like kissing Letitia. It was all the terror and desire that Pansy had always been to her, and once it had started, Astoria could not stop.

Pansy's hands and liar's tongue were all over Astoria's body, strong and assured. Pearl buttons popped off Astoria's wedding dress as Pansy pulled it down to get to her breasts, pinching and sucking, leaving bright red lipstick smeared across her chest. The pleasure of it was like some kind of beast within her, held so long in the dark that once its restraints were broken it just dragged Astoria along with it, helpless and overwhelmed.

Pansy owned her, like an ancient lord taking the _droit du seigneur_ , ensuring that she, and she alone, had the first taste of Draco's bride. Pansy's hard, painted nails hurt inside her, but somehow the pain only drove Astoria more frantic, along with the terror that at any moment someone could come knocking at the door. Quiet, she had to be quiet, madly biting into the sleeve of her gown as Pansy went to her knees, lifting the white layers of silk to go beneath.

When, at last, they emerged from the washroom, Pansy had redone her hair and makeup, and looked perfect once more, grinning like the Cheshire cat. A wave of the wand had restored Astoria's buttons to their place, but the aftermath of orgasm throbbed emptily inside her, and her hands, washed over and over, now felt wrinkled and waterlogged.

Emerging back into the reception, she saw that Draco was still out smoking with his mates on the balcony, apparently never having noticed she was gone.

As Astoria watched, Pansy sidled up to Draco and reached over his shoulder to nick a fresh cigarette from his pack. He turned in surprise, and she lit it from the one still burning between Draco's lips, standing on tiptoe with eyes closed — a strange parody of a kiss.

Draco's eyebrow raised in a curious smile. The other boys looked on, wide-eyed and uncomfortably chuckling, as though trying to see it as something other than what it was.

After carefully observing the impact of her entrance on Draco and the others, Pansy turned and raked her gaze across Astoria's face and body with cold, cocky triumph. It was then that Astoria first began to understand just what she had done.

*

The Higgses' fancy dress party is beginning to wind down. Bangs of apparition sound from outside the door, first occasional, then more frequent.

As Draco rises to leave, Pansy jumps up too, slides her bangled arms round his waist, and kisses him on both cheeks, pressing her body almost lewdly against his. Just a few feet away, Astoria bites her lip, trembling. In moments like this, Astoria feels the room must be full of Legilimens, all reading her every feverish thought — both the secrets she keeps from others, and those she keeps even from herself.

Astoria and Draco apparate into their foyer, unlit and still. Knowing there are none here but sleeping elves and her husband, she rips off her costume and lets it fall where it may, leaving herself naked and tipsy and exhausted in the dark.

When Draco grabs her, she lets out a wordless yelp of surprise, and then is silenced by his lips upon hers, kissing her hard and breathless. Fumbling, their feet nearly treading on each other, he moves her back and presses her against the door, and she can feel him hard against her hip.

With a shudder that could be pleasure or disgust, she realises it is Pansy is who's done this to him.

He doesn't spell on the light as he leads her to their bedroom, and neither does she. Perhaps he does not want to see her. Perhaps she does not want to see him.

Astoria does not hate sex with Draco. At times she even finds pleasure in it. She cannot want his hard, veined arms, not his sandpaper cheek and not his prick. But touches can feel good, and when there is nothing else, well, one takes what there is.

Tonight he does her on hands and knees, and the feel of him inside her does scratch a certain itch. She closes her eyes even though the curtains are drawn and the room is pitch black.

In her mind's eye she sees Pansy as the one on hands and knees, the one Draco is fucking, the one he wants. Yes — Pansy's twisted smile, her hair and face sweaty with sex. And Astoria sees herself sitting up against the elaborate headboard, wrists helplessly bound to it, as Pansy stares into her eyes, glowing with sadistic joy. Astoria writhes against her bonds and mewls in pathetic arousal as she watches Pansy jerk with every one of Draco's thrusts, her small taut breasts jiggling. Astoria herself is never touched, never attended to, never invited in.

In reality, Astoria groans, eyes rolling in pleasure at her fantasy, and Draco drives harder into her — responding to her, or to what he sees in his own imagination? Astoria's head swirls in confusion, jealousy blending into pleasure until she can no longer tell one from the other.

Draco comes, shuddering against her, and Astoria can't help but wonder if there will ever be a moment in their lives without Pansy there. Watching them. Between them. Within them.

Somehow, she is not certain she wants there to be.


End file.
